


Taking back the Crown

by Little_Winchester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Demon Blood Addiction, Demon Dean, Demon Dean Winchester, Demon Sam Winchester, F/M, Knight of Hell Dean Winchester, M/M, Okay literally every tag in this story has the word demon in it, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 05:06:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11913828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Winchester/pseuds/Little_Winchester
Summary: Even when he was at Stanford, Sam never really felt like he had lost Dean. He was still somewhere out there, hunting monsters and only a phone call away.That's why this, this loneliness, this sadness, this absolute pain, feels utterly foreign to him.He wants Dean back, and the thing with soulmates is that, where one goes, the other follows.





	Taking back the Crown

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually requested a while back by [@paradoxical_pinapples ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradoxical_pineapples) but I'm a lazy piece of shit and wouldn't get it done. But hey, here it is, like five months later
> 
> Also, the title is a line from Emperor's new clothes, Panic! at the Disco. I was listening to it while I wrote it, just alternating between that one and Believer by Imagine Dragons.

When Dean died, Sam’s world went down with him.

 

It crashed and thundered around Sam, crumbling like pastries and whirling around in a hurricane around him. Sam was at the eye, at the peaceful center, where even as grief threatened on drowning him every day, he pretended it was all okay. He pretended that the manager at the lobby didn’t give him a suspicious side-glance when he ordered a two-bed room when he was very clearly alone. He pretended that the empty bottles pooling at his feet were not only his fault, but that of some invisible companion, and that he hadn’t stayed up alone in the cheery motel room, staring at nothing. When Sam switched up the radio stations, jumping from channel to channel to something that didn’t just play old rock ‘n roll, he pretended that he could still hear Dean yelling at him and demanding some Led Zeppelin.

 

Sam pretended, and he acted and lied and swaggered and drunk like he couldn’t feel the echo of loss carved like an engraving on a headstone inside his chest. His hands shook and his mind was too far away and he could barely remember what it was like to feel anymore, because the numbness was much nicer than the brief interludes of sobriety that crushed his mind like a train wreck.

 

Until Ruby.

 

Until Ruby and her blood and her sweet deception and her butter-soft skin that bruised too easily under his fingers.

 

With Ruby, Sam stood back up. He replaced the dead look in his eyes with something colder, fiercer, something that made girls- girls that saw his body and his face but not his pain, never his pain, not like Dean had, Dean had been able to read Sam like an open book- who had sidled up close to him in a bar and made loose allusions to a good time spent rolling around in the sheets, shy away once they saw the glint in his eyes, because they saw _danger_ and they were scared enough to back off, to let another try her luck.

 

Ruby taught him death like it was an art, showed him beauty in pain and made the demon’s screams sound like music, and Sam fully understood his gift and the power running through Ruby’s veins, the liquid fire she dripped into his mouth to set him alight from the inside.

 

It _was_ a gift, Sam came to realize. Aside from Azazel’s mad nattering, he _had_ said that Sam and all of his children were special. Destined to do great things, Azazel had prophesied.

 

Azazel was right, but not in the way he had expected.

 

Azazel had a vision, and that had made him powerful, a formidable opponent. He had pictured a vast, sprawling army with Sam and Lily and Ava and Jake as the generals, all wreathed in darkness and ultimately, bowing down only to Azazel once he lounged on Hell’s throne.

 

Sam’s concept of the idea was much more alluring, seductive in its undeniable chance of success, but not with Sam as a servant of darkness, not when the sinful crown belonged to Sam.

 

Sam’s hunting of demons turned less focused on purging them from Earth and more towards having them kneel down before him and offer their blood as a tribute. The name Sam Winchester became unpronounceable in the hunting community, lest a nearby demon alerted the man himself (was he even a man anymore? No one knew, and no one was brave- or foolish- enough to find out) and the unfortunate soul who had dared to speak ill of Sam was found dead, blood congealing around their corpse and their eyes still widened in terror.

 

Anyone who so much as made some sort of unintelligible, obscure reference to Sam was immediately thrown out of The Roadhouse and warned never to come back, always by the sturdy lady who manned the counter and with sorrow-filled eyes and a grim line for lips.

 

His name became taboo and his bloody reputation grew, written in terrified features and blood, blood, blood, running down arms and flooding cities and crackling in Sam’s veins like starlight until he thought, no, he _knew_ he was ready, and he whispered his plan of becoming Hell’s King one moonless night when the stench of sex still hung in the air and the rise and fall of Ruby’s chest was visible under the thin sheets.

 

“No, Sam,” Ruby whispered, eyes wide and flashing black. “We had a plan. You can’t do this.”

 

Sam sat up. “I can’t do this?” He asked, his voice small and childlike.

 

Ruby placed a tentative hand on Sam’s shoulder. “No, you can’t,” she repeated softly.

 

Sam turned around to face her, and his eyes glimmered in the orange light of a streetlamp filtering through the blinds. They were utterly, unforgivingly white, and Ruby never even had a chance to scream before she died.

 

Sam could do that, now. Kill demons- previously considered the most powerful monster that lurked in the shadows- with barely a thought.

 

Ruby was the first to rebel against his wishes. She was the last, too, because no other demon dared to raise a fist, a finger, a word, in fear of being destroyed so absolutely that nothing on this world could ever bring them back.

 

Sam ripped through Hell like a man possessed once he set foot in the place, scouring every single inch for Dean, Dean’s tormented, tortured soul. He spent weeks darting from corner to nook to cranny to fields filled with writhing beings and valleys drowned in miserable wails until finally, finally, he found Dean, found him on his knees before a rack, hands splashed with red.

 

“Dean,” Sam breathed. He let the way his voice cracked convey every single feeling every hope and every prayer and every curse and every scream and every second Sam had spent missing Dean, because no other words could describe the bond between the Winchester brothers.

 

Dean slowly rose, his torn shirt smoldering at the seams. His face and arms were covered in soot, and crimson stained Dean’s jeans like blotted ink.

 

“Sammy,” Dean wheezed. He cupped Sam’s cheek in his hand, and Sam leaned into Dean’s touch without thinking about it.

 

What a picture they made. Dean looked like he had been stuffed inside a meat grinder and then clumsily cremated, and a trail of ash was left behind wherever he went. In front of him, Sam stood, eyes closed, in a flawless white suit with smoke billowing out behind him like wings. His crown, pearly-white bone circling his head like a laurel wreath, sat prominent atop chestnut bangs, and Dean could barely believe that this was real, that his little brother had come back for him.

 

“I’ve been looking for you for _so long_ ,” Sam whispered. Dean wavered for a second before placing a second hand on Sam’s face, tracing the smooth lines of his cheekbones.

 

“Yeah?” Dean rasped.

 

“Yeah,” Sam repeated, and Dean’s eyes flashed black.

 

Dean stepped back and dropped to his knees like a devout man before God. “My King,” Dean mused, his palms upturned in a supplicant’s pose.

 

Sam crashed down in front of Dean and lifted his face so that their eyes met, their bodies and charred souls entwining for one beautiful second. “My brother,” Sam countered. “My Knight.”

 

Dean’s lips twisted into a smirk as power bubbled in his pumping heart and his blackened veins. “Your Knight,” he echoed quietly. “I like the sound of that.”

 

Sam grinned back at him, dark and poisonous and more than a little sultry. “My consort?” He purred.

 

The blackness of Dean’s eyes darkened impossibly further. “Even better,” Dean drawled, and they both stood up, rising up as one, Sam in his snow-white suit and Dean in an obsidian ensemble as his previous rags shimmered and shifted into something closer to his liking.

 

Even as they stood there, star-speckled night swirling at their feet, the rumors were already beginning their flight.

 

Rumors that, more than two hundred years later, still made hunters and civilians quake in their boots, because nothing was more terrifying than the Boy King and his Knight who stood up to Heaven and won.

 

Nothing was more terrifying than the darkness and love that danced in their eyes as they looked at each other, but some things were better left unmentioned.

You never knew who could be listening.

**Author's Note:**

> So, what did you think? Liked it? Hated it? Let me know!
> 
> Also, if anyone has any requests for something I should write, please tell me. I mean, sure, I might take another five months, but at least I'll write it.
> 
> The intention counts for something, right?


End file.
